


For Everything I Touch, Surely Dies

by shishcabob22



Series: I Thought I Wouldn't Miss You (Until You Were Gone) [13]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angry Dean, Angry Sam, Episode: s09e23 Do You Believe in Miracles?, Gen, Hurt Dean Winchester, I sure don't - Freeform, I'm Sorry, Mark of Cain, Protective Sam Winchester, Sad Sam Winchester, Worried Sam, season 9 episode 23
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-09-25 05:02:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17114993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shishcabob22/pseuds/shishcabob22
Summary: The end is approaching, and Sam just wishes he had more time.





	1. You See It When You Close Your Eyes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AnotherWorld3111](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnotherWorld3111/gifts), [KaenNoMai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KaenNoMai/gifts).



> It's been a ride, folks. I hope you enjoyed this very long, drawn out series based on the brothers' relationship (and a few other minor details) in season 9. It was my first series as a fic writer, so I experimented with a couple different styles but (I hope some of) you bore with me. I really struggled with this last one, but I think it turned out okay. Without further ado, the final installment. Enjoy.
> 
> A HUGE shout out to AnotherWorld3111 and KaenNoMai, who were awesome supporting me through the latter half of this series! Thanks, guys! Small disclaimer--some lines/titles stolen from Let Her Go by Passenger.

Sam grit his teeth as he struggled to hold Dean back, even with Cas' help. Despite their efforts, Dean grunted and broke away, pivoting to face Sam who stood between him and Gadreel.

Sam put out his hands placatingly, but his stance was defensive. "Drop the blade, Dean."

"Move," Dean growled. The look on his face was pure rage, pure animal instinct.

"Dean. Look at me," Sam insisted in a last ditch effort to ground his brother.

Dean surged forward. "Sam, move!" Then Cas was tackling Dean from the side, and Sam leapt to grab Dean's right hand.

"Let it go! Let it go." Sam grappled for the Blade. Dean scowled, glaring at Sam before training his gaze on Gadreel. The distraction was enough that Sam was able to pry the Blade from Dean's fingers.

Dean fought the whole way to the dungeon, and Sam tried not to wince at the inhuman sounds wrenched from Dean's mouth.

Sam and Cas placed themselves firmly between Dean and the door once they arrived. Sam set his jaw, determined to put an end to this charade of normalcy he'd attempted to maintain.

Dean was breathing hard, eyes still alight with anger that seemed to have at least simmered down. He stalked a little closer to the door, casual, threatening. "The hell if you think I'm riding the pine on this one, guys."

"Something is wrong with you, Dean. And until we figure out what, this is where you have to stay." Dean was distinctly _not Dean_ , and it hit Sam harder every time he realized it. Didn't Dean know that? Didn't he have the slightest clue that something was off?

Dean stared at Sam and Cas indignantly, voice raising quickly above calm and sane. "And you two are gonna do what? Take on Metatron yourselves? That's smart. Oh, no, wait. No, you--" Dean waved at Cas "--you lost your angel army. And you--" Dean turned to Sam "--now you're trying to lock up the one guy who has a shot at killing the son of a bitch! Hell of a plan, fellas!"

Sam exchanged a look with Cas. There was no reasoning with Dean right now. They turned and left the cell, sealing the doors behind them. Sam did his best to ignore Dean's increasingly desperate pleas as they walked away, but as his brother's voice broke on the word "Sammy," the younger Winchester found himself hurrying down to the library, leaving Cas to lock the door.

It was the same voice, the same word he heard in his nightmares, as he watched Gadreel destroy everything he thought he knew.

* * *

Dean was doubled over in a corner of the dungeon, propped up with one hand on the cement wall. He coughed and gagged, desperately trying to pull in a breath while spitting up bile and... was that blood? He wiped his mouth with his hand, coughed again, pulled it away red. Shakily, Dean made his way over to a cabinet, opening it to confront his reflection in the mirror within.

It was the same guy he always saw in the mirror, when he could bring himself to look. Except for the blood coating his lips, dripping onto his chin. That was new.

He grimaced at the deep, permeating feeling of _wrongness_ inside him, stabbing at his gut and lungs and oh god his _heart_.

It wasn't hard to bust out of the dungeon and into the archive room--this was his bunker, after all. Then it was only a matter of collecting all the ingredients for the summoning spell, and it didn't take long for Crowley to appear in all his stumpy British glory.

"What's that smell?" Crowley asked, dusting off his hands and casting his gaze around the room cynically.  
Dean pushed himself to his feet. "What the hell's happening to me, you son of a bitch?"

He didn't even try to keep the vulnerability from his face, his voice. For the first time in a long time, he knew there was something really wrong with him and he _cared_ , dammit. And it wasn't just the coughing or the blood. It was _him_. And he didn't think he could handle it alone.

"Liquor before beer, bad taco? How should I know?" Crowley replied defensively.

"I can't turn it off!" Dean's voice was shaking, but he couldn't stop it, not with this aching _need_ crawling under his skin. "Ever since I killed Abaddon, it's--it's like this whole... other thing. I get this high and I-I-I need to kill. I mean, I really, really need to kill. And if I don't--"

"You yak your guts out," Crowley interrupted, nodding. "It's the Mark."

"Meaning?" Dean demanded.

"It wants you to kill. The more you kill, the better you feel. The less you kill, the less better you feel."

"How much less better?" Dean forced out, struggling past the sudden vision of himself, leaping forward and hacking into Crowley, tearing him apart piece by piece, limb from limb with his bare hands--

"One would imagine the least-best better," Crowley said calmly.

"So dead?" Dean asked haltingly. Crowley shrugged in assent. Dean sucked in a shallow breath. "Well, Cain had the mark. He didn't die."

"Cain was a demon. Your body's not strong enough to contain the blade's power."

Dean looked away, clutching his right arm as if that would eliminate the pain within him. He couldn't--he didn't want to die, not anymore, not right now. God, he wanted--he wanted--

"What if I got rid of it?" Dean asked before he could stop himself.

Crowley raised his eyebrows. "You want to get rid of it?"

 _No_.

Dean grit his teeth, felt his fear fade and burn away. "What I want is Metatron."

"Go on," Crowley urged, too calm, too casual, but Dean didn't care.

"But I have to get through that door, and I have to get to the Blade." Dean focused his gaze on the demon. "And you're gonna help me."

* * *

Sam entered the bunker library, Castiel and Gadreel right on his heels. For once, he thought the general situation seemed to have improved.

Until he noticed the Blade missing from it's box.

Sam ran up to it, as though a change in proximity would make the Blade suddenly appear. "Oh, no."

"What's that smell?" Gadreel wondered aloud from somewhere behind him.

"Sulfur," Sam gritted out, clenching his jaw in anger.

_Crowley, you bastard._

Cas went up to check the dungeon, but Sam already knew Dean was gone. He tried calling him, but just got his voicemail. Typical.

"Dean, pick up the phone. Call me back. I'm not kidding, all right? Don't do this. Not like this." Sam hung up, feeling a familiar if long-forgotten combination of worry and anger gnaw at his belly.

Honestly, when he looked back on the last few months, he was surprised Dean hadn't run off sooner. Or, run off again. But this... this was different. There was something wrong with Dean, and Sam needed him _here_.

"Are you sure it was Crowley?" Cas asked.

"Who else would he summon? I mean, he and Crowley have been bromancing over the Blade ever since Dean got the Mark." Which, Sam had to admit, irritated him more than a little.

Gadreel tilted his head inquisitively. "The Mark?"

"The Mark of Cain," Cas answered.

"So that's what Dean cut me with--the First Blade," Gadreel realized. "In a way, that could be useful."

Sam looked up sharply, feeling the knot of worry in his stomach turn sour with unease. "What?"

"Well, Metatron is more powerful than ever, but if Dean has the First Blade and the Mark, that might give us our best chance."

"You're joking, right?" Sam stood up. "An hour ago, we were ready to throw Dean into a padded cell, and now you say he's our best chance?"

"Hear him out, Sam." Cas said.

Sam turned to Cas incredulously. "Oh, right. Excuse me. Sorry, guys. Sorry I'm a little less than eager to hear that our best chance is-is arming the warhead and hoping it hits the mark. This is not a bomb we're talking about. This is my brother."

The words seemed to resonate with Sam for a moment, ringing around in his head because he knew that he meant them.

But, he conceded later, they might not have a choice. Besides, Gadreel and Cas would help, right? He would help.

Dean wouldn't be alone.


	2. Maybe One Day You'll Understand Why

Sam stood next to a beat up RV and watched Dean pull up in the Impala, with Crowley riding shotgun. The scene made Sam clench his jaw. As if he didn't already have reason enough to be pissed off.

"At least one of us doesn't need a demon to help follow a clue trail," Sam said as Dean approached, nodding at Crowley. "You're looking for miracle lady, right? Yeah, she's gone. I had a nice chat with her, though."

"Sam, whatever kind of intervention you think this is, trust me, it ain't. I'm not gonna explain myself to you," Dean said, equal parts stubbornness and resignation.

And there was that anger again, because this was Dean, going off and taking on another suicide mission by himself. Abaddon, and Cain, and now the Scribe of God.

"Yeah, I sort of got that. I just thought you might like to know that while you two have been playing, uh, odd couple, your real friends, like Cas, like the angel you stabbed, Gadreel--they're out there right now risking their asses to help you win this fight." Sam stated sharply.

"What the hell are you talking about?" Dean interjected, looking honest-to-God like he had no idea what Sam meant.

"A fight, I might add, you made that much more complicated when you decided to stab the one angel who could actually get us to Metatron!"

"You mean the angel that took you for a joy ride? The angel that slaughtered Kevin? That angel?" Dean clarified coldly.

_The goddamn nerve._

"Who you let in the front door in the first place! You tricked me, Dean. And now I'm the one who wakes up in the middle of the night seeing my hands killing Kevin, not you. So, please, when you say you don't want to explain anything to me, don't. I get it."

Because he did understand why Dean wanted to kill Gadreel, more than anyone. And maybe he wasn't over the fact that his brother had let the angel in. But there were larger things at play now, and they needed Gadreel _and_ Dean if they wanted to come out on top. Everything else could come later. "And I also get that Metatron has to go. And I know you're our best shot to do that."

Dean lifted his chin then, shifting from relenting to steely resolve in an instant. "I'm gonna take my shot. For better or worse."

"I know."

"No matter the consequences."

Sam knew, from years of experience, was that what he really meant was _no matter how this ends for me._

He nodded solemnly. "I know." And Dean lowered his gaze, some of that deep weariness from the last few months bleeding into his eyes. Like he thought Sam just didn't care.

Sam knew what role he'd played in putting that look there.

_"You'd do the same for me."_

_"No, Dean. I wouldn't."_

He'd tried not caring, but it never seemed to stick.

"But if this is it, we're gonna do it together." Dean's expression didn't change, but he looked up again, meeting Sam's eyes.

"You want to know what he whispered to her, right, in the video? His next stop."  
  


* * *

 

Dean's hand shook the whole way there. No matter how hard he gripped the steering wheel, he couldn't make it stop. The rage, the pain, the thirst for blood--it was all getting to be too much.

When they pulled into the abandoned parking lot, Dean waited until Sam had gone to scout the perimeter before making his way around to the trunk. He rummaged through weapons and salt canisters desperately, until finally reaching out his trembling hand to lay it on the Blade.

Immediately, a wave of calm, solid surety washed over him. He closed his eyes as the shaking--the need--abated, and he let out a breath of relief.

He opened his eyes, and he knew what he had to do.

* * *

Sam approached Dean warily as he returned to the car, unnoticed by his older brother, watching with a kind of horrified fascination as every muscle in Dean's body relaxed as he touched the Blade. Sam remembered the building worry of the last few weeks like a punch to the gut, overwhelming whatever anger he'd felt before. But that seemed to be the crux of their relationship lately, didn't it? Anger and worry, with not much else in between.

Sam cleared his throat and looked away, pretending not to have seen. Dean straightened up quickly. "Anything?"

"Uh, yeah. He's up there. About a mile up the road. There's a homeless encampment. The way the folks are talking, he's got them convinced he's some kind of new Jesus or something."

Dean nodded, chuckling a little. He seemed a little more like himself, calmer. But the Blade--it was doing something to him. It was dangerous, and Dean shouldn't need it the way he did.

"You good?" Sam asked. Because even if Dean was going to lie, he needed to hear it.

Dean smiled a little. "Yeah, I'm good."

Sam reached into the trunk and pulled out the First Blade wordlessly. He handed it to Dean, holding onto it for a moment as they both gripped the weapon. Then he let go, watching worriedly as Dean's breathing hitched and his eyes widened for a moment as he felt whatever the Blade made him feel.

Dean met Sam's eyes then, and it was all Dean. "Listen, Sammy, about, um, you know, the last couple of months..."

Sam recognized this apology, because they'd had this fight before. And the outcome was always the same. Maybe Dean was sorry for the way things turned out with Gadreel, maybe he was sorry for the Mark. It didn't matter. It never had.

So Dean apologized the only way he knew how, and Sam accepted it the only way he did. "I know."

Sam was the first to break the moment, turning away and grabbing his gear from the car. "So, before we find something else to fight about...tell me..." Sam slammed the trunk closed. "Are you ready to gut this bitch?"

He turned towards Dean. Then there was a burst of pain, and everything went black.

* * *

Dean knelt next to Sam, feeling the cool apathy the Blade provided wrap around him like a blanket. No guilt. No remorse. He picked Sam's hand gently from the ground to lay it across his chest.

"Sorry, little brother. It's not your fight."

He patted Sam's shoulder for good measure, then began his trek up the road.


	3. Everything You Touch, Surely Dies

"And? What, are you blaming me for giving them what they want, giving them a brand they can believe in?" Metatron asked offendedly.

Dean was done holding back for this bastard.

"I'm blaming you for Kevin! I'm blaming you for taking Cas' grace," Dean declared as he began unwrapping the First Blade. "Hell, I'm blaming you for the Cubs not winning The World Series in the last hundred freaking years. Whatever it is... I'm blaming you."

Metatron eyed the weapon cautiously. "The First Blade. Nasty piece of work, isn't she? Okay, let's say you win, Dean, and I die. What's the world left with then, hmm? A herd of panty-waisted angels and _you_? Half out of your mind with lord knows what pumping through those veins?"

Dean took a step closer, hand shaking, red leaking into his vision. He didn't really care what happened now, as long as he got to bury this Blade in this angel's heart. "Yeah, you see, the only thing you've said that went into my ear... was that you die."

Metatron huffed a sigh. "Oh, fine. We'll fight. I don't know what you expect is gonna come of all this. Unless... that's why you're stalling. Because you know nothing's gonna come of this unless your pals succeed upstairs. Well, here's a news flash—humpty and dumpty are starring in their very own version of "Locked Up Abroad: Heaven" right now."

Dean turned to the side, hiding his face. The thrum of the Mark grew louder, power flooding his veins, and he surged towards the angel. He managed to get a hit in, and Metatron stumbled back.

"Wow, that big blade and that douchy tribal tat sure gave you some super juice. Whoo! Okay." Metatron wiped the blood from his face and gestured for Dean to bring it on.

The Blade trembled in Dean's grip from the sheer force of the Mark. He unleashed a primal cry as he ran forward, but was flying through the air before he could even get close. He hit a concrete wall, then crashed to the floor.

Dean struggled to his feet, but Metatron simply flung him into the wall again. The angel advanced on Dean, viciously kicking the Blade from his hand.

"So, you took Abaddon's scalp, then you figured you'd take on little old nebbishy me. What could go wrong?" Metatron asked giddily as he crushed Dean's wrist beneath his foot. Dean let out a groan. "You're powered by the bone of a jackass, and it is just awesome, right? Here's a tip—next time, try to be powered by the word of God."

* * *

 

Sam woke up on hard, damp concrete, head spinning. It didn't take long to figure out where he was. And who was missing.

Dean had gone off to take on Metatron alone, and a few weeks ago, it would've made Sam mad that Dean was protecting him like this again.

Now, all he felt was fear.

Soon Sam was flying down the steps into the homeless encampment, looking around wildly for Dean. The homeless people started to surround him and he didn't have time for this, dammit!

He pulled out his gun, waving it at the crowd. "Stay back!" He waved it again, and the people scuttled away from the path of the gun. "Where's Metatron?"

* * *

 

Metatron's fists were raining down on him, reinforced by power no human would have been capable of. Each blow rattled Dean's focus, cracked his resolve. First it was Metatron standing over him, fists soaked in blood. Then it was Sam. Then Lucifer, in Sam's body. Then Cas. Metatron again, as he paused to grab Dean's face, tilting his jaw up to look him in the eyes. He hit him again, harder this time.

Dean could hardly see through the blood, the red clouding his vision. Only this time it was his, all his. He struggled to blink it away, and managed to make out the blurry outline of the Blade lying on the floor. He opened his hand, not even noticing that the hits had stopped coming. His hand shook as the connection from the Mark traveled down through his fingertips, straining for its partner. His hand steadied, and the Blade slid into his grip. He lifted it off the ground—

—and gasped as something long and sharp and cold plunged into his chest accompanied by a deep, soul-wrenching _pain_.

Numbness quickly spread through his body, and he didn't feel the Blade slip from his fingers. He looked down to see an angel blade being pulled from his chest. He gasped again as he desperately struggled to breathe.

Someone yelled, and Dean somehow instinctively knew where to look, wasn't surprised to meet Sam's tear filled eyes with his own. His head fell back against the wall, and he knew it was over.

_I'm sorry, Sammy._

* * *

 

"No!"

The word echoed across the room, desperation and denial compacted into a single plea. Sam met Dean's eyes, wide and vulnerable and resigned.

Then Dean collapsed to the ground.

Sam ran toward Dean, heart pounding in his ears, vision tunneling on his too-bloody, too-still brother. Sam knelt next to Dean, dragging him up into a sitting position. His hands hovered uselessly over Dean's chest, because he was scared he could somehow possibly make this _worse._

Thunder boomed overhead, and Dean's eyes blinked open to gaze up at the crumbling ceiling. _Cas_ , Sam thought distantly. He stood up, noticing Metatron standing over Dean for the first time, holding a blade dripping with blood. Dean's blood. Sam unsheathed his angel blade, crying out in fury as he made to stab him. But Metatron was already gone.

Sam dropped the blade, anger vaporizing as quickly as it always did when it came to Dean. As quickly as it used to, anyway.

"Sammy..." Dean said weakly, struggling to get the words out. "You got to get out of here before he comes back."

"Shh. Shh. Shh. Shut up. Shut up. Just save your energy, all right?" Sam fumbled with a piece of cloth, balling it up and pressing it to Dean's chest, flinching at his groan of pain. "Oh, man. We'll stop the bleeding. We'll—we'll get you a doctor or—or I'll find a spell. You're gonna be okay," Sam insisted, but his voice was shaky and the words were coming out too fast and _oh god the blood..._

As an afterthought, Sam held Dean's hands over the cloth to keep it in place. Dean stubbornly reached out a hand to grip Sam's shoulder. "Listen to me. It's better this way," Dean managed, and there was blood everywhere else but it was his eyes that were raw.

Sam's own eyes widened, fear of a different kind seizing his bones. "What?" he breathed.

Dean gasped out, "The Mark. It's making me into something I don't want to be."

Sam felt an overwhelming surge of love for his brother, because _this_ was his brother. The brother who raised him, who cared for him. Who would never let anything bad happen to him. Who went to hell for him, who regained his soul, who saved him from the trials and carried the world on his shoulders. Who would do anything for Sam, regardless of the cost to himself. 

"Don't worry about the Mark. We'll figure out the Mark later. Just hold on, okay? Give me some help." Sam pulled Dean to his feet, hooking his arm over his shoulder and helping hold the cloth to Dean's chest, and they began making their way to the exit. The brothers stumbled across the room, Dean's gasps loud and heavy in the near silence.

_"You wanna know what I confessed in there? What my greatest sin was?"_

One of them, Sam couldn't tell who, tripped on a fallen piece of scaffolding littering the ground. Sam's grip on his brother slipped, almost dropping him.

_"It was how many times I let you down."_

Sam readjusted his grip on Dean. Blinking hard, he shoved his thoughts down as he trudged forward. He wasn't about to let Dean down again, he _couldn't._  

Somewhere along the way, Dean mustered the energy to ask, "What happened with you being okay with this?"

He couldn't believe he'd really let Dean believe that. Couldn't believe he'd told Dean he was _selfish_. Because now, of all times, he could understand why Dean had done what he had.

He would do anything to save his brother.

"I lied," Sam said bluntly, the truth slipping out more easily than the lie had months before.

"Ain't that a bitch?" Dean grunted, and Sam wasn't sure whether he wanted to laugh or sob. He settled for hauling his brother a little faster, worried at how hard it seemed for Dean to talk.

Sam could see the exit now, less than twenty yards away. They would get out, and they would get help, and Dean was going to be just—

But then they were listing to the side, neither brother able to support Dean's weight for long.

"Sam. Hold up. Hold up."

Sam leaned Dean carefully against a piece of equipment, still holding him upright. Dean was panting shakily, a small, blood coated smile creasing the wrinkles next to his eyes. "I got to say something to you."

"What?" Sam whispered, tears beginning to obscure his vision.

Dean tightened his grip on Sam's shoulder. "I'm proud of us." He reached up to cup Sam's face, and Sam leaned into it, a painful sense of finality settling over him. Their eyes met, and Dean's seemed to convey the kind of pride and warmth only Dean's ever could. Then he was tilting forward, eyes drifting shut, and Sam was catching Dean's weight against his body.

"No, no. Hey, hey, hey. Hey, wake up, buddy," Sam pleaded.

Sam shifted Dean back to hold his face in his hands. "Hey. Dean. Dean!"

But Dean's blood was painting his hands, and he wasn't waking up.

So Sam held his brother in his arms, and sobbed as his world fell apart.

* * *

 

Sam carried Dean's body from the car to the bunker in a haze, not caring in the slightest about the blood staining him or the Impala. He laid Dean on his bed, in his room, surrounded by his things.

_"Did you sell your soul for me?" Sam had asked. And Dean wouldn't look him in the eye._

Tears welled up in his eyes, but Sam took a shaky breath and dropped his chin in a nod of resolve.

_"You shouldn't have done that. How could you do that?"_

Sam made his way into the library unsteadily, pulling a pint of whiskey from the cabinet where Dean kept the good stuff. There wasn't much left, not with the amount Dean had been drinking these last few months.

_"Don't you get mad at me. Don't you do that."_

Sam knocked back a shot of whiskey, barely feeling the burn.

_"I had to. I had to watch out for you. That's my job."_

_"And what do you think my job is?"_

Sam staggered to the dungeon, liquor and grief upsetting his balance. He swallowed roughly and entered the cell, barely registering the fact that everything he needed was already there.

He was going to summon Crowley, and he was going to fix this. Because there was no doubt in his mind of what Dean would do if their situations were reversed.

_"You sacrifice everything for me. Don't you think I'd do the same for you?"_

And damn it if Sam wasn't about to return the favor.

* * *

 

_Can't you see_

_I'm poison_

_Everything I touch_

_Withers and dies_

_You left me in the dark_

_And now I'm slipping away_

_I can't do it without you_

_But it's okay_

_I don't matter_

_You're better off without me, anyway_

_When I'm gone_

_Don't you cry_

_For everything I touch, surely dies._


End file.
